LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 

■^X. -"t-- .iA).ivcti.^tf-v\ 

Class     y^^^y 


*W-a^   1-  5'  ,  \  <»  0  7  . 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bluebellotherverOOwhitrich 


or  THf     ^ 

iiNIVERSiTY 


RK\h 


THE  BLUEBELL 

AND  OTHER  VERSE 


BY 


Emma  Turney-Whitson 


^       or  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


R.  H.  WHITSON,  Publisher 


Melvin,  Hillis  &  Black,  Printers,  San  Jose,  CaL 


Copyrighted  by  R.  H.  Whitson.  1906. 


INDEX  TO  CONTENTS 


Portrait  of  the  Author ,        Frontispiece 

The  Bhiebell 7 

To  One  Who  Conquered 9 

To  the  memory  of  the  Author,  by  Rev.  Robert  Whitaker. 

Dreamland 10 

Love-Letters 11 

Gone  Home 12 

Modern  Press  Dispatches 13 

The  Soldier's  Mother 14 

The  Twentieth  Century  Knight 16 

The  Uneventful  Way 18 

SONGS    OF    HOME    AND    LOVED   ONES: 

In  the  Gloaming 19 

Love  as  Guest 20 

The  Poet 21 

If  We  Didn't  Have  to  Cook .23 

Housekeeping 24 

Baby's  Surprise 26 

Mother's  Magic  Kiss 28 

Thanksgiving 30 

The  Better  Way 34 

To  a  Bride  and  Groom •      •        •        •        •  35 

Good-Bye 36 

To  Clara  B 37 

To  Frank 38 

To  Bob 39 

To  40 

SONGS    OF    FAITH    AND    FAREWELL: 

My  Grace  is  Sufficient 41 

A  Song  of  Trust        .        .        . 42 

Ruth ,        ...  43 

Inasmuch 44 

Go  Ye 47 

Proverbs  10:22 49 

The  Cheering  Promise 50 

Pain's  Ministry 51 

Memories  of  Home 52 

A  Dream 55 


155985 


To  the  dear  ones  of  the  old  home,  and  the  yet 
dearer  ones  of  the  new,  this  Httle  book  is  affectionately 
inscribed. 


Feb.  24,  1905. 


PUBLISHER'S  PREFACE. 

In  fulfillment  of  a  promise  made  the  author  a  few 
months  before  her  death,  this  little  volume  of  verse  was 
to  have  been  published  by  the  writer  for  distribution 
among  relatives  and  intimate  friends  of  the  family  only 
— those  who  knew  her  best  and  appreciated  her  writ- 
ings; but  owing  to  the  fact  that  a  number  of  acquain- 
tances, on  learning  that  such  a  book  was  to  be  printed, 
made  application  for  copies,  it  was  decided  to  publish 
a  larger  edition  than  was  first  contemplated  and  place 
the  books  on  sale. 

As  a  writer  of  prose  the  author  was  better  known 
as  "Mrs.  Bob."  For  four  years  she  assisted  the  writer 
in  the  publication  of  the  Dunsmuir  News,  in  which  paper 
some  of  the  poems  contained  herein  were  first  printed ;  a 
few  were  published  in  the  Christian  Standard,  while  the 
others  now  appear  in  print  for  the  first  time. 

Emma  J.  Turney  was  born  at  Turney  Farm,  near 
Barnhill,  111.,  and  died  at  Oakland,  Cal.,  May  T.'j,  1905, 
after  a  long  and  painful  illness,  aged  35  years,  4  months 
and  10  days. 

For  every  earnest  word  she  spake  ^ 

Shall  in  time's  furrows  ripen  seed; 
Such  labor  shall  our  world  awake, 
To  take  deep  thought  for  human  need. 

We  met  in  sorrow  at  her  grave, 
Right  lovingly  we  said  farewell; 
All  richer  for  the  life  she  gave, 
All  poorer  for  its  broken  spell. 

The  publisher  thankfully  acknowledges  courtesies 
from  Rev.  Robert  Whitaker  for  assistance  in  the  ar- 
rangement of  this  book  of  verse  and  for  other  favors 
in  behalf  of  its  publication. 

R.  H.  WHITSON. 


*^      O^  THF 

UNIVERSITY 

or 

THE  BLUEBELL. 


There  is  a  story,  tender,  quaint,  and  old. 
That  in  some  twilight  hour  I  have  been  told — 
A  story  brought  from  out  the  bounteous  store 
Of  myths  and  legends.     This  is  Indian  lore. 
Helpful  and  sweet  I  think  you  will  agree, 
If  I  can  tell  it  as  'twas  told  to  me. 

Hov/  once  a  little  flower,  white  as  snow, 
Tossed  by  the  breezes,  passing  to  and  fro. 
Grew  in  a  deep,  dark  canyon  where  no  light 
Of  sun  could  touch,  and  only  stars  by  night 
Shed  their  soft  rays  and  only  Heaven's  blue 
Made  up  by  day  the  little  flower's  view. 

Day  after  day  the  modest  blossom  gazed — 
Her  pure,  white  face  in  simple  trust  upraised. 
Nor  guessed  that  she  was  wondrous  fair  to  see. 
So  full  she  was  of  sweet  humility — 
Longing  for  beauty  like  the  sky  and  star, 
Bending  above  the  flower  from  afar. 

But  by  and  by  there  came  to  her  a  strange 
And  wondrous  thing — the  face  began  to  change, 
Slowly  at  first,  and  scarcely  seen,  she  grew 
Like  to  the  sky  above,  a  lovely  blue. 
And  in  the  heart,  like  that  one  seen  afar, 
A  tiny,  golden  drop — a  shining  star. 


It  breathes  a  lesson,  if  we  read  aright, 

The  story  of  the  httle  blossom  white. 

We  grow  like  that  we  look  upon,  and  love. 

And  long  for !    Turn  our  eyes  and  thoughts  above. 

Fill  our  hearts  full  of  pure  ideals,  and  we 

Shall  grow  like  that  we  most  desire  to  be. 

Our  lives  were  given  to  us  pure  and  white. 
And  we  have  power  to  make  their  colors  bright, 
And  fair  and  lasting,  like  some  pure,  white  star. 
By  clean,  sweet  thought,  but  evil  thought  will  mar 
The  flower  of  character;  Lord,  help  us  be 
Daily  perfected  as  we  look  on  Thee. 


TO    ONE    WHO    CONQUERED. 

Dear  heart,   that  bore  thy  load  of   pain 

So  bravely  down  life's  later  way, 
Thou   hast  not   lived  and   died   in  vain, 

Our  lives  are  blessed  of  thee  today. 

Thy   tears    like   winter   rains    have  passed. 
Yet    gush   from    hidden    hillside   springs; 

For   us    thy    skies    were    overcast. 
Thy  winter  in  our  springthne  sings. 

For  us  thy  common  task  was  done. 

For  us  thy  soul  was  unsuodued. 
For  us   thy   dull  days   one   by   one. 

For   us    the    strong   triumphant   mood. 

Was  thine  the  lonely  forest  way? 

The  humid  and  unlighted  mine? 
Ours   is   the  fireside's  cheerful  ray, 

And   stones   that   yonder   stars  outshine. 

Thine  was  the  agony  and  sweat. 
The  cross  that  all  who  save  must  share; 

Ours  is  thy  holy  influence  yet. 
The  resurrection  faith  and  prayer. 

O  soul  that  dwellest  now  serene 

Beyond   the   noise   and   hurt   of  strife. 

Whatever   thy   rewards   unseen, 
Lo!    how    thou    livest    in    our  life. 

ROBERT  WHITAKER 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Friend, 
Mrs.  R.  H.  W. 


DREAMLAND. 

I  know  a  nook  where  the  sweet  fern  grows 

With  nodding  violet,  and  soft,  pink  rose; 

Where  purple  bee-flowers  scent  the  air — 

Oh,  the  moments  fly  in  that  nook  so  fair. 

How  well  I  remember  that  hour  of  bliss, 

The  smiles,  the  sunshine,  the  heart-warm  kiss — 

The  memory  haunts  me  wherever  I  go. 

Though  'twas  only  in  Dreamland  I  lived  it,  you  know. 

The  sleep-god  is  gracious,  he  gilds  all  the  day 

With  the  memory  of  bright  dreams ;  and  "memory",  they 

say, 
"Is  possession."     A  foretaste  of  long-waited  bliss 
Is  mine  in  the  rapture  of  one  Dreamland  kiss. 


10 


LOVE-LETTERS. 

He  found  her  weeping  softly  o'er  a  tray 
Filled  with  old  letters,  stored  for  many  a  day — 
Dainty,  white  missives,  tied  with  lover's  blue. 
"Weeping  because  some  lover  proved  untrue," 
Prompted  his  jealous  heart,  hurt  that  his  wife 
Had  hid  from  him  one  chapter  of  her  life. 

Nearer  he  drew,  with  noiseless  step,  and  scanned, 

Unheeded,  what  the  message  in  her  hand. 

Whispered  to  her  of  hope  unrealized. 

He  stopped,  condemned — the  missive  that  she  prized- 

The  letter  that  was  blotted  with  her  tears 

Was  one  he  wrote  to  her  in  other  years. 

He  was  the  lover  whom  she  found  untrue. 
Softly  he  knelt,  and  her  sweet  face  he  drew 
Close  to  his  own,  and  said:     "Forgive  me,  sweet, 
That  I  have  failed  to  make  your  life  complete. 
I  loved  you  fondly  then,  but  hear  me  vow : 
I  never  loved  you  half  so  well  as  now !" 


11 


GONE  HOME. 

(In  Memory  of  President  McKinley.) 

Out  of  the  tumult  and  battle  fray 

The  nation's  hero  went  home  today. 

Softly  the  roll  of  the  muffled  drums 

Spoke  to  the  waiting — "The  chieftain  comes !' 

Never  a  shout  from  the  gathered  crowd, 
Only  sobbing,  and  bared  heads  bowed. 
Only  tears  from  the  white-faced  throng 
Greet  the  guest  who  is  borne  along. 

Only  the  solemn  march  of  feet 
Into  the  Silent  City's  street. 
Canton  welcomes  her  honored  son 
Home  to  rest,  with  his  work  all  done. 

Home  from  the  conflict — oh,  sweet  release 
After  life's  battle  surpassing  peace. 
Rest  and  silence.     Heaven  grant  it  be 
"Nearer,  Nearer  my  God  to  Thee." 


12 


f      *■       or  THF     "^ 

0    UNIVERSITY 


■f 


MODERN  PRESS  DISPATCHES. 
(Anent  the  war  with  Spain.) 

MONDAY. 

All  indications  make  it  plain 

That  Uncle  Sam  must  war  with  Spain. 

TUESDAY. 

For  peace  there  now  is  ground  for  hope, 
Through  mediation  of  the  Pope. 

WEDNESDAY. 

The  situation  grows  alarming — 
Both  nations  for  the  fray  are  arming. 

THURSDAY. 

Honor  demands  full  reparation. 
*'Free  Cuba!"  loudly  cries  the  nation. 

FRIDAY. 

Peace  indications  growing  thicker; 

Spain  knows  right  well  that  we  can  lick  'er! 

SATURDAY. 

What  does  McKinley  take  us  for? 
Our  honor  saved  by  naught  but  war! 

SUNDAY. 

Latest  advices   sent  the   Sunday 

Papers  say,  "Cuba  free  on  Monday." 

*     *     * 

Which  makes  so  plain,  no  one  can  doubt  it, 
The  papers  don't  know  much  about  it. 


13 


THE  SOLDIER'S  MOTHER. 
(Decoration  Day,  1899.) 

"I  bring  this  chaplet  of  roses  here," 

Said  a  woman,  bent  and  gray, 
"For  him  who  went  from  my  heart  and  home 

In  the  dawn  of  another  May. 

"I  stood  in  the  doorway  that  fair  spring  morn 

As  he  marched  adown  the  street. 
And  my  heart  was  proud  of  my  soldier  boy 

Who  looked  so  trim  and  neat. 

"He  had  heard  the  call  of  his  country's  need. 

And  he  answered,  'Here  am  I. 
Be  brave,  dear  mother,'  his  fond  lips  said 

As  he  kissed  me  a  last  good-bye. 

"I  tried  to  smile  as  I  said  'Good-bye,' 

But  a  woman's  heart  is  weak. 
And  the  sobs  came  quickly  and  choked  them  back- 

The  words  that  I  meant  to  speak. 

"So  I  only  watched  till  his  proud  young  form. 

In  its  uniform  of  blue, 
Had  faded  out  to  a  tiny  speck, 

In  the  distance  lost  to  view. 

"Then  I  turned  again  to  my  lonely  house. 

Of  its  last  loved  child  bereft; 
For  death  had  taken  my  other  sons, 

And  of  five,  but  one  was  left. 


14 


"So  passed  to  summer  the  bright  spring  days, 

And  across  the  waters  blue 
Came  news  that  wherever  my  lad  was  found 

He  was  ready  and  brave  and  true. 

"Then  another  message  the  papers  brought, 

And  my  heart  with  grief  stood  still, 
As  I  read  that  my  boy  was  among  the  slain 

On  that  terrible  San  Juan  hill. 

****** 

"I  stood  in  the  doorway  again  one  morn, 

When  my  boy  came  up  the  street. 
They  bore  him  slowly  within  the  hall 

That  had  echoed  his  merry  feet. 

"I  kissed  the  forehead  so  cold  and  white, 
As  I  whispered,  'Thy  will  be  done — 

But  pity  the  lonely  heart,  O  God, 
That  has  given  its  dearest  one.' 

"So  I  bring  a  chaplet  of  flowers  here, 

And  a  flag,  for  my  boy  so  brave; 
There's  plenty  of  time  in  my  childless  life 

To  brighten  and  'tend  his  grave. 

"And  if  souls  look  down  from  their  house  of  light. 
He  may  smile  in  his  same  old  way, 

Glad  that  his  name  is  among  the  rest 
Whom  we  honor  and   love  today." 


15 


THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  KNIGHT. 

In  olden  days  when  the  world  was  young — 

The  golden  days,  that  have  oft  been  sung 

In  glowing  words  by  a  poet's  pen, — 

Dwelt  many  noble  and  knightly  men. 

Their  keen,  bright  sword,  and  their  right  arm  strong 

Won  many  a  battle  'gainst  sin  and  wrong. 

Each  knight,  as  he  rode  away  to  the  fight. 

Where  he  offered  his  life  for  the  cause  of  right. 

Wore  fair  on  his  bosom  a  knot  of  blue, — 

A  pledge  from  his  lady,  so  fond  and  true. 

Ah,  never  a  knight  wore  the  ribbon  fair 

But  felt  new  courage  to  do  and  dare. 

The  thought  that  heartened  him  all  the  while 

Was  that  coveted  guerdon — his  lady's  smile! 

The  days  of  King  Arthur  are  vanished  far, 

Mailed  knights  no  longer  ride  forth  to  war, — 

With  shield  and  helmet  away  to  the  fight. 

Where  "law"    meant    "power"  and    "might"    meant 

"right." 
A  gentler  knighthood  the  world  knows  now, 
But  not  less  valiant.    Though  on  his  brow 
No  iron  helmet  he  proudly  wears, 
For  home  and  country  our  knighthood  dares. 
His  helmet  and  breastplate,  a  clean,  pure  life. 
His  watchword  "mother,"  "sweetheart,"  or  "wife;" 
His  cause,  the  cause  of  earth's  poor  oppressed; 
His  guerdon  the  knowledge  of  wrongs  redressed; 
His  cherished  castle,  a  cottage  home, 
Whence  love  and  honor  must  never  roam. 

16 


No  more  we  sigh  for  the  days  of  old, 

Whose  praise  in  story  and  song  is  told. 

But  womanhood  cries,  with  her  eyes  tear-bright, 

"Three  cheers  for  the  Twentieth  Century  Knight!' 


17 


THE  UNEVENTFUL  WAY. 
("There  is  no  chance  for  heroism  in  my  line  of  work.") 

''No  chance  for  heroism  here,"  you  say; 
'T  simply  bear  a  burden,  day  by  day : 
The  days  go  on,  each  as  the  one  that's  past, 
And  nothing  that  I  do  can  count  or  last. 

No  little  worth  the  time  the  small  tasks  seem, — 
So  far  beneath  the  work  of  which  I  dream, — 
With  few  to  reckon  them,  and  none  to  ask 
If  well  or  ill  I  do  the  lowly  task." 

Not  so,  my  friend,  not  all  the  heroes  they 
Who  win  their  triumphs  in  the  world's  array, 
Where  plaudits  greet  them,  and  where  loud  acclaim 
Crowns  them  with  laurels  and  a  mighty  name. 

They,  too,  are  heroes,  who  from  day  to  day, 
Go  on  their  dull  and  uneventful  way. 
Dreaming,  perhaps,  of  some  beloved  art, 
But  doing  duty  with  a  faithful  heart. 

And  the  Great  Master  Workman  at  the  last, 
Showing  the  faithful  record  of  our  past. 
May  say  of  those  small  things  o'er  which  we  grieved, 
"Behold,  how  great  a  work  thou  hast  achieved!" 


18 


^onfisi  of  f  ome  ann  JLoieD  €)ne!8* 


IN  THE  GLOAMING. 

Tonight,  as  I  sit  in  the  gloaming, 
All  my  thoughts  fondly  follow  you,  dear, — 

My  strange,  truant  thoughts,  always  roaming, — 
Seem  to  bring  you,  my  love,  very  near. 

Again  you  are  here  and  you  hold  me. 
Your  warm  arm  fondles  me  round, 

And,  as  to  your  great  heart  you  fold  me, 
I  exult  in  the  bliss  I  have  found ! 

My  life  seems  but  made  for  this  pleasure. 
My  duty  to  only  be  glad — 

My  heart  gathers  closely  its  treasure. 
And  defies  any  fate  that  is  sad. 

I  am  wishing  that  life  and  its  favors 
Might  just  be  merged  into  this — 

That  I  might  know  naught  but  what  savors. 
Of  your  handclasp  so  warm,  and  your  kiss! 

If  life  held  for  me  no  more  blessings 
Than  this  sweet  experience  can  give — 

These  soul-thrilling,  heart-warm  caressings, 
I'm  sure  'tis  exquisite  to  live. 

Heart  has  pulsed  against  heart,  warm  and  tender, 
And  soul  has  commingled  with  soul. 

'Tis  enough.     Earth  has  yielded  her  splendor. 
And  heaven  offers  no  fairer  goal. 

19 


LOVE  AS  GUEST. 

Love  came  a  g-uest  into  my  heart 

And  tarried  but  a  day. 
"How  can  I  live,  sweet  Love,"  I  cried, 

"When  thou  art  gone  away?" 

"Far  better  had  I  never  known, 
Than  grieve  henceforth  for  thee." 

Love  answered :    "Then  canst  thou  be  lone 
With  me  for  memory?" 

"Nay,  nay!    Love's  joy  can  not  be  lost 

When  once  it  is  possessed; 
No  home  is  ever  desolate 

Where  Love  hath  been  a  guest." 


20 


THE  POET. 

He  went  to  work  with  his  clothes  all  worn, 
For  his  wife  was  writing  a  poem. 
She  said  "Too  bad  your  clothes  are  torn, 
But  I  haven't  the  time  to  sew  'em !" 

With  a  button  off,   from  his  boisterous  play, 

Her  son  came  hurrying  in — 

*'I  haven't  a  minute  to  spare  today, — ■ 

Fix  it  up  with  that  safety-pin !" 

Then,  the  little  daughter  came  in  and  said : 
"Please  sew  the  strings  on  my  bonnet ; 
They're  off,  and  it  won't  stay  on  my  head." 
"Oh,  dear!     When  I'm  writing  a  sonnet!" 

"I  can't  look  after  you  all  the  time. 
Though,  of  course,  it  would  give  me  pleasure — 
There  now,  you  have  spoiled  a  lovely  rhyme. 
And  ruined  my  rhythmic  measure!" 

"It's  quite  too  bad  that  such  gifts  as  mine 
Should  on  household  tasks  be  wasted. 
No  lips  are  pleased  with  a  common  wine 
When  Art's  rich  champagne  they've  tasted." 

So  her  husband  went  with  his  elbows  out, 
While  she  wrote  and  rhymed  and  measured ; 
And  her  children  roamed  the  streets  about. 
While  her  "gems  of  thought"  she  treasured. 


21 


And  people  asked:     "Is  that  man's  wife  dead? 
'Tis  strange  that  I  did  not  know  it." 
But  the  Hsteners  always  smiled  and  said: 
"Oh,  no;  but  his  wife's  a  poet!" 


22 


IF  WE  DIDN'T  HAVE  TO  COOK. 

In  the  leafy  glades  we'd  wander — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook. 
Oh,  the  wisdom  we  might  ponder — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook. 
We  would  grow  more  wise  than  sages, 
Learn  the  lore  of  all  the  ages 
Written  down  on  history's  pages — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook. 

We  would  dress  and  smile  so  sweetly — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook; 
And  we'd  keep  the  house  so  neatly — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook. 
We  would  know  where  each  thing's  place  is. 
And  we'd  wash  the  children's  faces. 
And  we'd  cultivate  the  graces — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook. 

Living  would  be  such  a  pleasure — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook; 
Comfort  would  be  ours,  full  measure — 

If  we  didn't  have  to  cook. 
Oh,  for  some  one  whose  attention 
Shall  be  turned  to  an  invention 
That  shall  cure  the  ills  I  mention. 

So  we  will  not  have  to  cook! 


23 


HOUSEKEEPING. 

Yes,  my  work  is  prosaic,  I  frankly  admit; 
For  of  romance  it  boasts  not  the  least  little  bit. 
But,  though  every  hour  of  the  whole  day  my  hands 
Are  busy  with  pots  and  with  kettles  and  pans — 
Though  in  place  of  a  sweet  hour  with  some  favorite  book, 
I  must  iron  and  scrub,  I  must  scour  and  must  cook — 
Have  you  never  yet  heard  that  no  power  can  bind 
Or  tie  down  the  wings  of  a  free-soaring  mind  ? 

Though  my  hands  are  engaged  in  a  humble  employment, 
Rest  assured  that  my  mind  seeks  a  higher  enjoyment, 
Arid  on  gay  wings  of  fancy  delightfully  roams 
In   the    sweet   fields   of   romance,    whose   gateway   has 

Holmes, 
Or  Holland,  or  Whittier,  opened  for  me. 
So,  in  spite  of  surroundings,  my  friend,  you  will  see 
Of  contentment  I  hold  in  possession  the  key. 

It's  every  bit  nonsense — this  worry  and  care 
About  talent  that's  wasting  itself  on  the  air. 
Just  bravely  go  forward  and  know,  without  doubt. 
If  you  have  any  genius  it's  bound  to  come  out. 
And  genius  may  be  but  a  fine-sounding  name 
For  a  nature  too  lazy  to  have  any  aim. 
So,  I'm  of  the  notion  it's  better  to  cook 
A  digestible  dinner  than  write  a  poor  book. 

Proceed  with  your  work,  be  it  plain  household  tasks, 
Or  science,  or  art.    But  be  sure  the  world  asks 


24 


The  best  there  is  in  you.    A  lofty  ideal 

Helps  the  toiler  to  beautify  even  the  real. 

Each  worthy  achievement,  each  hard  battle  won, 

Gives  strength  for  new  vict'ries.     At  each  set  of  sun 

You  may  deem  the  world  better  for  your  work  well  done* 


I  25 

I 


BABY'S  SURPRISE. 

I  was  weary  and  worn  one  morning 
With  the  cares  of  the  baking  day, 

When  my  little  one  came  with  his  eager  face 
All  flushed  from  the  heat  of  play. 

"Please,  mama,"  the  soft  voice  pleaded, 

"Just  make  me  one  tiny  pie 
To  eat  in  my  little  playhouse." 

I  turned  with  impatient  sigh — 

"Don't  bother  me  now ;  I'm  busy," 
And  the  voice  it  was  none  too  sweet. 

The  light  was  gone  from  his  laughing  eyes, 
And  sobered  the  dancing  feet. 

As  the  little  one  turned  to  obey  me 

No  word  of  reproach  had  he, 
But  the  sight  of  the  quivering,  rosy  mouth 

Was  censure  enough  for  me. 

For  I  thought  of  my  own  sweet  mother; 

No  matter  how  tired  her  hands. 
She  was  always  so  loving  and  patient 

With  all  of  my  childish  demands. 

And   I   whispered,   "Dear   Father,   forgive   me 
When  I  am  impatient  and  blind." 

Then  I  turned  again  to  my  labor. 

With  the  sweetness  of  peace  in  my  mind. 


26 


By  and  by  when  I  called  the  baby, 
He  hastened  with  eager  feet. 

No  memory  of  past  unkindness, 
But  pardon  and  trust  complete 

Shone  out  in  his  face.     But  I  whispered 
"I  was  hasty,  my  pet,  I  know. 

Forgive  me.    These  pies  are  for  baby, 
To  tell  him  I  love  him  so." 

With  a  grateful  kiss  he  repaid  me. 

What  love  in  his  glad  blue  eyes 
As  he  said,  "You're  the  dearest  mama. 

To  give  me  this  lovely  s'prise." 


27 


MOTHER'S  MAGIC  KISS. 

My  little  blue-eyed  toddler  comes  and  stands  beside  my 

knee, 
And  a  tear-stained  face  in  trouble  is  uplifted  anxiously. 
As  he  holds  a  chubby  finger  to  my  sympathetic  sight, 
To  show  a  tiny  scratch  that  mars  the  flesh,  so  soft  and 

white. 

I  take  him  close  within  my  arms,   and  kiss  away  the 

trace 
Of  tears,  that  cloud  the  sunshine  of  the  baby's  dimpled 

face. 
Then  I  kiss  the  wounded  finger,  and  I  smile  to  hear  him 

tell. 
In  gleeful  voice    "My  mama   kissed    the   hurted    finger 

well!" 

There  are  pathways  rough  and  stony  for  his  small,  un- 
certain feet; 

There  are  many  bumps  and  bruises  that  the  tender  flesh 
must  meet; 

But  his  faith  in  mother's  magic,  and  the  power  of  her 
spell, 

Make  the  baby's  troubles  light  ones, — for  a  kiss  can 
make  them  well ! 

.  Oh,  little  one,  life's  pathway  has  been  thorny  to  my  feet. 
And  I  miss  the  tender  solace  that  you  seek  and  find  so 
sweet ; 

28 


But  my  childish  faith  it  fails  me,  when  the  road  is  rough 

and  long; 
My  lips  forget  their  smiling,  and  my  heart  forgets  its 

song. 

What  solace,  could  I  nestle,  with  a  faith  like  yours,  my 
child, 

And  feel  that  love's  caress  can  heal  the  anguish  fierce 
and  wild. 

I  am  scarred,  and  bruised  and  beaten.  Ah,  the  comfort 
none  can  tell. 

Could  I  still  believe  that  mother's  kisses  make  the  heart- 
ache well! 


29 


THANKSGIVING. 

I  sat  by  the  window  musing, 

When  the  tasks  of  the  day  were  done, 

And  the  sky  was  bright 

With  the  soft  stars'  Hght, 
As  they  blossomed,  one  by  one. 

'Twas  an  hour  for  sweet  communion, 
'Twas  a  time  for  peace  and  rest; 

But  my  heart  was  rife 

With  disturbing  strife, 
That  was  surging  through  my  breast. 

Though  this  was  the  glad  Thanksgiving 
When  the  heart  of  man  uplifts, 

And  its  praise  doth  sing 

To  the  gracious  King 
Who  bestows  such  bounteous  gifts; 

Yet  my  heart  was  bitter  and  thankless 
Because  of  one  gift  denied, 

And  I  tearfully  thought, 

"The  gift  I  have  not 
Is  better  than  all  beside." 

Then  Conscience,  my  better  angel,. 

Came  near  me  and  whispered  low, 
"You  have  home,  you  have  love, 
God's  best  gifts  from  above ; 

Having  these,  dare  you  murmur  so?" 

30 


But  I  said,  "There  are  other  women 
Who  have  all  of  these  dear  love  ties, 

And  life  is  all  sweet 

And  smooth  for  their  feet, 
There  is  nothing  that  Fate  denies. 

"  'Tis  true,  of  earth's  homely  blessings 
My  life  has  a  generous  store, 

But  these  are  common. 

And  I  am  human, 
So  my  heart  still  cries  for  more." 

Ungrateful  I  turned  from  the  angel — 
Ungrateful  I  sought  my  rest; 

"The  gift  denied," 

My  heart  again  cried, 
"Is  always  the  gift  that  is  best." 

On  the  noiseless  wings  of  slumber, 
I  was  borne  that  night  to  the  bed 

Of  my  fair  young  child. 

With  his  face  sweet  and  mild, 
And  they  whispered,  "The  child  is  dead!" 

"O  God,  to  one  stricken  mother 

Thou   didst  give  back  her  dear  one,   I   cried; 

Wilt  Thou  not  restore 

The  child  I  loved  more, 
Than  all  of  the  world  beside !" 


31 


But  sternly  the  angel  whispered — 
I  heard,  and  my  face  grew  white — 

"More  than  all  of  the  earth 

The  one  gift  seemed  worth 
That  thy  heart  was  denied  tonight. 

"So  now  in  place  of  the  baby 

You  may  choose  this  gift  that  you  sought; 

You  have  but  to  speak 

And  the  thing  that  you  seek 
To  your  waiting  arms  shall  be  brought." 

But  my  heart  cried  out  for  my  darling 
With  a  mother's  anguished  cry, 

"Give  back  the  child," 

Said  the  accents  wild, 
"Give  back  the  child,  or  I  die!" 

I  awoke,  so  great  was  my  anguish. 
Lo,  my  babe  lay  slumbering  there. 

I  could  not  speak, 

But  I  pressed  his  cheek. 
So  tender  and  soft  and  fair. 

And  I  cried,  "O  God,  I  thank  Thee 
With  a  heart  full  of  gratitude 

For  Thy  patient  kindness 

Through  all  my  blindness. 
For  Thy  gifts,  that  are  always  good. 


32 


"Since  Thy  wonderful  love  and  mercy 
My  life  have  so  richly  blessed, 

Let  life's  full  measure 

Be  woe  or  pleasure, 
I  shall  know  that  Thy  way  is  best." 


33 


THE  BETTER  WAY. 
(To  Sister  Bradley.) 

I  shall  not  save  my  laurel-wreath 

To  deck  your  bier; 
My  love  and  thanks  I  choose  to  breathe 

While  you  can  hear. 

For  reaching  to  my  faltering  feet 

A  helping  hand, 
To  show  how  sympathy  most  sweet 

Can  understand; 

For  pointing  tenderly  the  way 

To  faith  grown  dim, 
I  want  to  thank  you,  friend,  today, 

While  I  thank  Him. 


34 


TO  A  BRIDE  AND  GROOM. 

Dear  ones,  new-bound  together  by  the  ties 
Sweetest  of  all  left  man  when  Paradise 
Was  lost  to  Adam  and  to  all  his  race, 
We  give  you  joy!     May  every  budding  grace, 
That  brightened  Eden  that  first  wedding  morn, 
Shine  now  on  you — Love's  rose  without  the  thorn 
Love's  trust,  that  scans  the  future  all  unf earing; 
Love's  pride,  all  other  charms  of  love  endearing. 
May  He  who  turned  the  water  into  wine 
For  Cana's  marriage,  here  repeat  the  sign. 
Honor  the  vows  your  fond  lips  are  confessing. 
And  breathe  upon  your  blended  lives  His  blessing. 


35  1*3^' ^^H 

UNlYERSiTY 


or 


GOOD-BYE. 

(To  Ella.) 

"Good-bye" — "Good-bye!"     With   quivering  heart 

We  speak  the  words  before  we  part. 

How  many  joys  and  hopes  and  fears, 

How  many  days  and  months  and  years, 

Shall  bring  their  pleasure  or  their  pain 

To  us  ere  we  shall  meet  again. 

"Good-bye."    Be  brave,  choke  back  the  tears; 
We  only  feel,  not  speak,  our  fears ; 
But  arms  cling  close  and  hearts  beat  fast, 
At  this  "good-bye" — perhaps  the  last. 
Through  burning  tears  that  dim  the  light, 
We  watch  the  dear  form  out  of  sight; 
No  time  can  from  our  hearts  efface, 
The  image  thus  in  love  we  trace. 

God  grant  that  when  our  last  "good-bye" 

Is  spoken,  as  the  evening  sky 

Of  life  grows  dim,  with  Death's  dark  night, 

We  see  ahead  heaven's  radiance  bright, 

Where  we,  made  fair  by  love's  adorning. 

Say  not  "good-bye,"  but  say  "good  morning." 


36 


TO  CLARA  B. 

(Christmas,   1895.) 

Dear  Clara:     Though  fond  of  a  sly  little  prank, 
My  wishes  for  you  are  pecuHarly  "Frank"; 
May  true  love  and  tenderness  shelter  you  round 
And  all  of  your  life  be  securely  "Snow-bound!" 


h7 


TO  FRANK. 

(Christmas,   1895.) 

Accept  this  little  gift,  this  Chistmas  time, 
And  with  it  our  best  wishes,  told  in  rhyme. 
A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  wise — 
I  read  your  story  in  your  kind  blue  eyes; 
And,  though  I  tease  you,  yet  believe  me,  friend, 
No  kinder  wish  you'll  have  than  this  I  send ; 
That  life's  most  precious  wealth  may  yield  you  part, 
And  crown  you  with  the  love  of  one  true  heart. 


38 


TO  BOB. 

(Christmas,   1895.) 

Dearly  beloved,  I  come,  the  last,  to  you. 

To  bring,  with  humble  gifts,  my  fond  and  true 

Heart-love  for  you,  my  generous-hearted  king; 

Knowing  that  I  no  dearer  gift  can  bring 

This  Christmas  day,  than  one  I  gave  before, 

In  other  years — myself — my  heart's  full  store 

Of  truth,  and  tenderness,  of  trust  and  love. 

These  shall  be  yours  until  we  wait  above. 

To  hear  the  Father's  accents,  sweet  and  mild, 

Pronounce  the  tender  welcome — "Come,  my  child!' 


39 


TO 


Dear  Love,  when  I  remember  how  your  Hfe 
Has  been  all  shadowed  with  earth's  care  and  strife; 
How  you  have  made  a  willing  sacrifice 
Of  self,  to  others,  counting  not  the  price; 
How  you  have  banished  pleasure,  conquered  pride, 
Life's  fondest  hopes  and  dreams  all  put  aside 
With  patient  love  that  gave,  unmurmuring. 
Life's  dearest  gift,  as  though  a  common  thing; 
While  I  on  selfish  plans  and  pleasures  bent. 
Have  railed  at  Fate,  with  thankless  discontent, 
Taking  the  good  she  brought,  yet  murmuring 
Because  her  hand  denied  some  cherished  thing; 
My  heart  grows  humble,  and  would  fain  confess 
How  deep  it  feels  its  own  unworthiness. 

And  steadily  has  this  conviction  grown: 
Were  I  a  queen  upon  a  royal  throne, 
My  fame  and  power  acknowledged  of  all  men, 
I  were  not  worthy  of  you  even  then. 


40 


^ongsJ  of  ifaftl^  anti  jfaretaell 


MY  GRACE  IS  SUFFICIENT  FOR  THEE. 

My  heart  was  bowed  down  by  a  burden 

Too  heavy  for  mortal  to  bear; 
So  I  cried  my  grief  to  the  Father, 

In  a  pleading,  importunate  prayer. 
"I  faint  'neath  the  burden,  my  Father; 

The  cross  is  too  heavy  for  me." 
But  the  answer  came,  sweetly  and  clearly, 

"My  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee." 

"Remember  my  weakness,  O   Father. 

Remember  how  sorely  I'm  tried; 
In  the  name  of  my  dear  elder  Brother, 

Thy  loved  only  Son  crucified, 
I  pray  you  to  lighten  this  burden, 

I  pray  you  to  hearken  my  plea." 
I  listened,  and  still  heard  the  answer: 

"My  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee!' 

"Thank  God  for  that  grace  all  sufficing," 

I  cried,  with  new  joy  on  my  face; 
"Let  me  learn,  through  my  heartaches  and  crosses, 

How  priceless,  dear  Lord,  is  Thy  grace. 
Learn  to  drink  of  the  cup  uncomplaining. 

Then  turn  in  sweet  trust  unto  Thee, 
To  whisper,  'Thy  grace,  O  my  Master, 

Is   richly   sufficient   for  me.' " 

41 


A  SONG  OF  TRUST. 

Tho'  He  slay  me  will  I  trust  Him; 

Tho'  my  idols,  one  by  one, 
Fade  before  my  longing  vision 

As  the  mist  before  the  sun: 
Tho'  in  every  cup  He  send  me 

There  be  mingled  sweet  and  gall. 
Even  as  I  drink  the  wormwood 

I  will  trust  Him,  all  in  all. 

Tho'  He  slay  me  will  I  trust  Him. 

Tho'  I  cannot  see  my  way; 
Tho'  I  cannot  know  the  purpose 

Of  the  grief  He  sends  today. 
Still  I  trust  Him,  knowing  surely 

With  the  burdens,  one  by  one. 
He  will  send  the  strength  to  bear  them, 

If  I  pray,  "Thy  will  be  done." 

Tho'  He  slay  me  will  I  trust  Him. 

Oh,  thou  grieved  and  tempest-tossed, 
Trust  Him,  even  amid  thy  mourning 

For  the  dear  one,  loved  and  lost. 
When  in  humble  resignation 

Thou  dost  pray,  "O  God,  Thy  will," 
He  will  whisper  to  the  tempest 

Of  thy  anguish,  "Peace,  be  still." 


42 


RUTH. 

I  like  the  story  that  is  sweetly  told 
Of  her  who  gleaned  in  Boaz'  fields  of  gold. 
Humble  and  poor,  with  toil  and  sorrofw  spent, 
She  followed  gladly  where  the  reapers  went ; 
Toiling  with  patient  care  and  gentle  grace. 
Content  to  fill  a  lowly  gleaner's  place. 

And  I  have  wondered  if  it  might  not  be, 

This  story,  sweet,  was  told  to  you  and  me. 

That  we  might  feel  and  know  the  wondrous  beauty 

That  comes  to  life  through  humbly  following  duty; 

Content  to  fill  our  heaven-appointed  place. 

How  small  soe'er,  with  cheerfulness  and  grace. 

Dear  Lord,  if  in  Thy  field  I  may  not  be 
One  of  Thy  reapers,  then  I  pray  of  Thee 
That  I  may  be  another  lowly  Ruth, 
Gleaning  amid  Thy  harvest  fields  of  truth, 
Content  to  find  for  all  my  toil  and  pain 
A  handful  of  thy  precious  golden  grain. 


43 


INASMUCH. 

There  came  to  me  once  a  legend, 

It  matters  not  whence  nor  when, 
That  the  Lord  from  His  home  in  glory 

Once  came  to  the  sons  of  men. 
With  the  questions :     Since  Christ  died  for  you, 

Bore  for  you  the  shame  and  pain, 
Have  you  given  yourself  to  His  service? 

Was  the  lesson  He  gave  all  in  vain? 
W^hat  sheaves  have  you  gleaned   for  the  harvest? 

What  good  have  you  wrought  in  His  name? 
What  gain  can  you  show  for  the  using 

When  the  Master  His  talents  shall  claim?" 

From  one  who  had  heard  the  question. 

The  answer  came  thus,  sad  and  slow: 
"Dear  Master,  I've  done  but  little 

For  Him  who  has  loved  me  so. 
Though  I   longed  to  work  in  Thy  vineyard, 

The  sad  and  the  weary  of  earth. 
Whose  lot  seemed  all  darkness  and  sorrow. 

Whose  life  never  paid  for  the  birth. 

Have  needed  my  help.     They  have  called  me. 

And  my  heart  always  answered  the  call; 
For  their  sorrows  bore  heavy  upon  me 

And  I  feared  that  in  sin  they  might  fall. 
So  I  labored  among  them  daily. 

Shared  with  them  my  meager  fare. 
And   sheltered   the   homeless   wanderer 

From  the  bitter,  biting  air. 

44 


"And  some  of  them  blessed  me  for  it, 

Recalling  a  mother's  prayers, 
And  love  they  had  long  forgotten, 

Amid  earth's  sins,  and  its  snares. 
I  think  they  knew  that  I  loved  them, 

And   somehow,   though   unexpressed, 
I  felt  that  the  knowledge  made  them 

Turn  again  to  God's  love  and  rest. 
I  never  could  understand  it, 

But  I've  noticed  again  and  again. 
We've  more  faith  in  God's  love  and  mercy 

When  we've  faith  in  the  love  of  men. 

''So,   Master,   I've   been   so  busy — 

The  poor  have  needed  me  so — 
My  work  seems  to  be  almost  worthless, 

So  humble  it  is  and  so  low. 
Just  feeding  earth's  hungry  children, 

Just  soothing  their  care  and  pain; 
Just  doing  the  task  that  lies  nearest, — 

This  can  merit  but  little  gain." 

Then  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  answered, 

With  a  low,  sweet  voice,  as  He  smiled, 
"You  have  done  the  task  that  was  nearest 

And  counted  it  little,  my  child? 
Have  you  never  heard  that  the  angels 

Watch  o'er  from  their  home  on  high, 
And  no  deed  of  mercy  or  goodness 

That  is  done  in  His  name  can  die? 

45 


"When  you  gave  the  cup  of  cold  water, 

Or  the  shelter,  because  of  love, 
Did  you  never  guess  that  the  Father 

Recorded  the  act  above? 
Inasmuch  as  your  love  has  done  it, 

To  the  humblest,  the  lowliest  one. 
You  have  ministered  unto  the  Master — 

Good  servant,  your  work  was  {well  done!" 


46 


GO   YE. 

All  solemnly  were  gathered  there 

The  faithful  few  who  saw  Him  rise. 

Their  hearts  were  awed,  or  hushed  in  prayer, 

And  love  lay  tender  in  their  eyes. 

For  He,  their  risen  Lord  and  King, 
Was  speaking  now  to  each  rapt  heart, 
That  beautiful  and   priceless   thing. 
The  last,  last  word  before  they  part. 

Say,  will  He  tell  them  of  the  bliss 
Of  that  far  home  to  which  He  goes? 
Or  will  he  speak  them  balm  for  this 
When  they,  bereft,  must  face  earth's  woes? 

They  wait  and  listen,  but  the  sound 
Rings  like  a  trumpet,  strong  and  clear: 
"Go  to  all  lands  where  man  is  found 
And  teach  My  word,"  is  what  they  hear. 

'*Lo,  I  am  with  you  to  the  end!" 

His  hands  in  tender  blessing  raised 

As  he  ascended.     Low  they  bend 

To  worship  Him  while  God  they  praised. 

"They  zvent  with  joy" — the  Word  is  clear; 
They  bore  the  tidings  gladly  then; 
But  we — ah,  well,  my  friend,  I  fear 
We  underrate  the  souls  of  men. 


47 


Still  clearly  rings  the  mandate,  "Go!" 
We  hear,  but  thus  our  course  defend: 
My  duty  lies  at  home,  and  so 
We  neither  go,  or  send! 

We  deck  our  homes  and  rest  at  ease, 
We  shut  our  ears  to  that  clear  call, 
While  they,  our  brethren  o'er  the  seas, 
In  sin  and  bondage  dark  must  fall. 

'Tis  thus  we  slight  His  last  command; 
We  dare  be  deaf  to  word  so  plain, 
But  see  Him  point  that  wounded  hand, 
And  ask,  "Where  is  thy  brother,  Cain?" 


48 


PROVERBS  10:22. 

We  hunger  and  thirst  through  a  whole,  long  life 

For  place  that  has  never  a  touch  of  strife. 

But  we  taste  the  gall  in  each  cup  of  sweetness, 

We  long  in  vain   for  heart-completeness; 

And  earth's  best  gifts  seem  sometimes  but  taunting 

To  the  heart  that  craves  and  is  always  wanting. 

But  the  gifts  from  our  Father's  bounteous  hand 
Bring  the  peace  no  human  can  understand. 
He  giveth  blessing  unmixed  with  sorrow, 
A  glad  today  with  no  fear  for  the  morrow; 
And  the  rest  and  shelter  and  peace  from  strife 
That  we  hunger  and  thirst  for  all  our  life 
Come  only  to  him  who  his  heart  uplifts 
In  prayer  to  God  for  His  perfect  gifts. 


49 


THE  CHEERING  PROMISE. 

Of  all  the  promises  that  I  read 

In  that  dear  Book  I  love, 

There's  none  so  cheers  my  weary  heart, 

So  lifts  my  thoughts  above, 

As  that  one  spoken  by  our  Lord 

To  weary  hearts  oppressed — 

"Ye  heavy  laden,  come  to  Me, 

And  I  will  give  you  rest." 

Through  all  my  life  I've  sought  for  rest, 
Have  sought,  and  found  it  not; 
Discouraged  with  the  fruitless  quest 
How  sweet  this  sacred  thought — 
I've  but  to  turn  to  Him  who  spoke 
This  promise,  true  and  blest, 
"Ye  heavy  laden,  come  to  me 
And  I  will  give  you  rest." 


50 


PAIIN'S  MINISTRY. 

Whatever  is  best  in  the  way  of  trial 
I  am  wilHng  to  meet,  for  the  hand  of  Pain 
Holds  the  human  heart  like  an  unstrung  viol, 
And  tightens  it  up  for  a  finer  strain. 

Whatever  is  best  for  my  perfect  shaping 
I  want  should  come,  I  am  not  afraid; 
I  make  no  plea  for  ways  of  escaping, 
But  only  for  courage  and  spirit  aid. 

Though  the  quivering  depths  of  pain  are  sounded. 
The  storm  may  teach  me  the  worth  of  calm. 
And  I  want  my  life  to  be  full  and  rounded. 
As  though  it  were  moulded  in  God's  great  palm. 

I  would  grasp  the  best  of  this  brief  existence; 
And  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know 
That  it  must  be  bought  by  the  soul's  resistance — 
By  loss,  temptation,  and  blinding  woe. 

So  I  welcome  Pain  as  my  friend  and  master. 
And  I  walk  with  Him  through  sorrowing  nights, 
And  in  the  dawn  of  each  spent  disaster 
I  find  I  am  nearer  the  shining  lights. 


51 


MEMORIES  OF  HOME. 

In  the  old-fashioned  house  where  I  Hved,  long  ago, 
The  quaint,  little  one-story  house,  long  and  low, 
With  its  porch  on  the  north,  and  its  porch  on  the  south, 
There  were  two  great  stone  chimneys,  with  wide-open 

mouth. 
That  belched  forth  the  smoke  of  the  generous  fires. 
No  modern  invention  such  comfort  inspires. 
As  that  which  you  feel  as  you  sit  by  the  hearth. 
In  love  with  your  lot,  and  at  peace  with  the  earth. 
Again,  looking  through  the  long  lapse  of  the  years. 
The  home,  with  its  every  loved  nook  reappears ; 
The  old  cedar-tree  in  the  yard,  where  the  birds 
Sing  lullabies  soft,  that  are  sweeter  than  words, 
As  they  flit  through  the  branches,  or  sit  on  the  nest. 
The  little  ones  sheltered  and  warm  'neath  their  breast. 

Again  through  the  orchard  I  roam  at  my  will, 
I  gather  the  first,  sweet  wildflowers  on  the  hill; 
Then  rest  in  the  shade  of  the  stately  old  trees, 
Whose  leaves  murmur  low  at  the  touch  of  the  breeze. 
Oh,  how  can  I  name  every  spot  that  I  see? 
But  each  holds  some  memory  sacred  to  me, 
And  to  childhood's  glad  hour.     Then  I  looked  undis- 
mayed 
To  the  dim,  misty  future, — I  was  not  afraid. 
My  sceptre  of  power  I  held  in  my  hand. 
And  fortune  must  come  at  my  touch  of  command. 


52 


I  would  write  noble  books,  I  would  lecture,  or  preach. 
And  the  world  should  be  better  for  doctrines  I'd  teach. 
Well,  these  dreams  are  dead — ne'er  to  quicken  again. 
But  who  shall  assert  that  I  dreamed  them  in  vain? 
No  worthy  ambition  or  dream  stirs  the  heart 
But  gives  us  fresh  impulse,  and  leaves  us  with  part 
Of  the  virtue  it  pictures.    Then  make  your  dreams  pure, 
And  noble,  for  life  shall  be  like  them,  be  sure. 

But  in  this  old  home,  as  I  started  to  say, 

A  riotous  troop  of  us  nestled  one  day: 

Five  light-hearted  girls  and  four  strong,  manly  boys; 

Each  one  bubbhng  over  with  innocent  joys. 

The  father  and  mother  so  proud  of  us  all — 

Their  brave  little  helpers  to  come  at  their  call. 

And  lighten  their  burdens,  and  cheer  their  old  days. 

But  the  children  have  gone  on  their  separate  ways 

'Till  but  one  lonely  "helper"  remains  to  him  now. 

The   dear  mother   went  home;   and   on   time-furrowed 

brow. 
His  thin  locks  are  blossoming  white  for  the  tomb ; 
But  through  all  life's  conflict,  and  sorrow,  and  gloom, 
His  unfaltering  faith  in  the  goodness  of  God 
Has  brightened  each  step  of  the  way  he  has  trod. 
And  patient  and  tender  he  follows  us  still, 
With  his  love  and  his  prayers ;  and  we  know  that  he  will 
Continue  to  bless  us,  and  pray  that  each  life 
Be  true  to  life's  duties,  and  strong  in  its  strife. 

Thank  God  for  the  light  of  a  true  Christian  home — 

53 


A  beacon  to  guide  us  wherever  we  roam! 

And  though  far  away  from  that  dear  shelter,  now, 

Though  the  bright  crown  of  motherhood  rests  on  my 

brow; 
Though  blest  with  new  ties  and  the    sweet    name    of 

"wife," 
Most  gladly  I  turn  back  the  pages  of  life, 
And,  tracing  its  history  with  Memory's  pen, 
For  one  happy  hour  live  my  childhood  again. 

Dear  ones  in  the  home  of  my  youth,  left  behind. 
Whatever  may  be  the  new  pleasures  I  find ; 
Whatever  my  lot,  be  it  dark,  stormy  skies. 
Or,  radiant  with  sunshine,  a  new  Paradise, 
Misfortune  is  light  if  your  love  helps  me  bear  it. 
And  no  joy  is  perfect  if  you  cannot  share  it. 
Though  distance  has  power  to  divide  us,  it  never 
The  sweet  ties  of  love  and  of  kinship  can  sever; 
But,  tender  and  strong,  as  through  all  of  our  past 
They  shall  bind  us  together,  till  Death  breaks  the  last. 
And  when  to  that  far-distant  shore,  one  by  one, 
We  pass  to  our  rest,  as  our  earth- work  is  done, 
Where  never  again  shall  we  sorrow  or  roam, 
May  God's  loving  hand  reunite  us  at  Home. 


54 


a:  dream. 

I  worshipped  Beauty.     One  of  earth's  plain  creatures, 
Devoid  of  grace,  and  wearing  homely  features, 
I  bowed  to  this  one  idol,  Pagan  fashion, 
I  worshipped  beauty  with  a  mighty  passion. 

My  heart  was  sad.     I  could  not  understand 

The  purpose  of  the  great  Creative  Hand — 

The  hand  whose  mighty  love  and  matchless  power. 

Had  given  beauty  to  the  senseless  flower. 

While  all  the  artist  in  my  soul  had  cried 

And  craved  this  boon,  yet  always  was  denied. 

After  a  weary  day,  when  this  old  thought 

Had  troubled  me,  I  longed  for  peace  and  sought 

Rest  and  repose.     Sleep  brought  them,  and  I  dreamed 

A  dream  that  brightens  all  my  life.     It  seemed 

I  stood  and  waited  just  outside  the  gate. 

Where  all  who  pass  from  earth,  must  stand  and  wait, 

Until  some  seraph  sets  the  gates  ajar 

To  let  them  in,  where  all  the  angels  are. 

While  standing  there  I  thought  of  my  whole  life, — 
Peaceful  sometimes,  yet  often  filled  with  strife. 
Thought  how,  at  times,  my  hungering  cry  for  beauty 
Had  drowned  the  warning  voice  that  whispered  "duty." 
Still,  memory  could  not  make  me  wholly  sad, 
I  felt  that  there  was  good,  as  well  as  bad. 


55 


I  seemed  ag-ain  to  hear  some  earth-friend  say: 
"You  helped  me  back  into  the  narrow  way." 
I  thought  of  how  my  heart  had  learned  to  take 
Its  cross  and  bear  it  for  the  Master's  sake. 

And  then  I  pondered:     "When  I  enter  in 
The  gate,  where  cometh  never  any  sin; 
Where  I  can  daily  watch  the  angels'  faces, 
And  see  their  perfect  beauty,  and  true  graces 
May  I  not  grow  like  to  the  lovely  throng, 
And  find  the  beauty  I  have  craved  so  long?" 

Just  then  three  angels  came,  with  wings  of  light. 
Near  where  I  stood  and  all  around  was  bright. 
They  paused  and  looked  me  o'er  with  wondering  eyes, 
Whose  hue  reflected  Heaven's  tender  skies. 
They  read  the  story  of  earth's  pain  and  losses; 
They  knew  I  oft  had  fallen  'neath  its  crosses, 
But  at  the  last,  won  victory  over  sin, 
And  waited  here  that  they  might  let  me  in. 

I  read  my  welcome  in  their  loving  eyes. 

And  "Welcome  home!"  re-echoed  through  the  skies. 

Then,  as  I  passed  into  the  realm  of  bliss, 

I  heard  them  say,  "How  beautiful  she  is!" 

You  say  "  'Twas  nothing  but  a  dream,"  but  I 

Believe  that  angels  left  their  home  on  high 

To  whisper  in  my  dream  the  message  sweet: 

"Have  faith;  thy  beauty  shall  be  made  complete." 


.56 


UNIVEFl^ifV/l 


YC   16733 


